The Ghost of Ivy Pepper
by ubiquitousantiquitous
Summary: Pam stumbles across Harley looking at old photographs. Pam has none to share, and with good reason. Fluff. Gotham (TV show) compliant. A certain cat also arrives to steal a scene.


Anonymous: PLZ write about Pam and Harley talking about her back story in the Gotham show?

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Ow, my heart? But okay.

Gotham TV show compliant (idk, I guess?)

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Even though she and Selina made fun of Harley's singing, when she was singing quietly, to herself, it was…well, still not good, but almost sweet. Like a child making sound to remind themselves that they had a voice, or to fill a sense of loneliness that came with silence. Pam had just finished up her afternoon playtime with her plants; she leaned against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, aware that her soil-smudged jean shorts would muss up the wall, but relished in Selina's angry screeching when she would finally find the marks.

Harley was seated in the middle of the foyer before the fireplace, her back to Ivy, unaware she was there. She hummed a song that was only vaguely familiar—upbeat, bouncy, and annoyingly catchy, just like Harley. A devious thought developed in time with the smirk on Pam's lips. Harley was always playing tricks and pulling pranks, and Pam so rarely had the opportunity—or, frankly, the knowhow—to pull one herself.

As she crept forward softly, hands up for the tickling, she caught sight of what Harley was doing on the floor. Dozens of photographs were strewn on the floor, depicting primarily a little blonde girl with a wide smile and the occasional missing tooth.

"You were a chubby kid."

Harley jerked in place, a quick strangled sound replacing her humming. When she recovered, she shot Pam the deepest scowl while Pam smiled proudly back. It wasn't her initial prank, but this would do. Getting to see Harley's eyes widen enough to see the full disk of sky blue was worth it, the same could be said for her cheeks pinking with embarrassment.

"Liar," she hit Ivy's arm lightly as she sat to join her cross-legged on the floor. "I was friggin' adorable, and y'know it. Look at this one—the pigtail-dress combo is super-presh."

"If you say so," Pam said flatly, moving forward with her playful mood. In truth, it was a cute picture. A young Harley of about three sat on an older man's lap, her father by the matching sky-like hue of their eyes, her hair in neatly curled pigtails. She was dressed in a dress that only a girl under the age of five could get away with, all poof and bright pink and bows galore. Her cheeks were pink there, too. She looked like a china doll. "You look like a Kewpie Doll."

Harley puffed her cheeks. She studied the picture a second, her brow furrowed deep. With that expression, she looked about three again, and Pam could only barely stop her laughter.

"Fine," the clown huffed, drawing another photo. "Look at this one. It's me and my brother. Six years old. Matching outfits. Ice cream cones. Sunday at the park. Now _that _is cute."

"Actually, it looks a little unsettling. Like those Precious Moments statues."

"The ones with the freaky-big eyes?"

"Yeah."

"Rude."

"Of course. How about some pics from when you were older, maybe you grew out of that creepy factor," she egged Harley on. She didn't quite understand it herself, but she wanted to see more photographs, to catch glimpses of Harley's life before Arkham had ever been a factor, but she didn't want Harley to know.

"Here," she plucked one up. "My tenth birthday party. I'm the kid in the Ninja Turtles mask."

"Uh-huh," Pam took it from her, brows furrowed in scrutiny. "And…why isn't anyone else in costume?"

"'Cause they were idjits, honestly. The invitation said it was a _dress-up _party, for cryin' out loud. Pretty self-explanatory."

Pam's insides began to shake with laughter. Somehow, it was comforting to know that between then, age ten, and now, Harley was about the same at her core. There was some part of her, an essence, that wasn't tainted by Joker.

"I like your costume, though. It suits you," she placed the photo down, her attention moved to another.

"Well," Harley patted her hair far too self-importantly for a girl dressed in footy pajamas before nightfall. "I _have _been told that green is my color."

Pam stared at her.

"Come on, more than one person can rock the same color, Red. Learn to share."

Pam rolled her eyes, and handed Harley the picture she'd seen. "Why are you dressed as a bride?"

"Oh," Harley laughed. "Weeeeeell, my cousin got married when I was twelve. And, my _gad_, I hated her. She was older than me by eight years, and I wanted, like, literally everything she had. We liked _The Little Mermaid_; I got a T-shirt, she got an entire underwater-themed bedroom. We liked Blondie; I got a CD, she got to see 'em live. Joke's on her, though. She liked to shoplift, but she always got caught. Me, l'il Miss Five-Finger Discount? Never caught, and I had a huge collection of Pokémon cards to prove it."

"And you're dressed as a bride because…?"

Harley pursed her lips together and blew her bangs. "I threw a _ginormous _huge fit about how it wasn't fair, I shoulda had a nice dress, too, and yadda yadda. Ma finally caved and got me the dress."

"And you're kissing—oh, _Harl_, tell me that's not the groom."

Harley shrugged. "Eh, I also liked her fiancé. Now, hold onto your hats, I just found the pictures from when I turned fourteen; that was the summer I got _slammin' _hot."

She watched as Harley shifted different Polaroids aside, searching, searching, searching. The determination was so evident on her face, and Pam was all too aware, and a bit envious of just how much emotion Harley freely displayed at any given moment. In her haste, a lock of hair fell from Harley's ponytail and into her eyes. Pam brushed it back behind Harley's ear before the younger woman could even react to its escape. Ivy drew her hand back quickly, as if she'd been shocked. She and Harley locked eyes a long moment, blue searching green, before Harley leaned forward a bit.

"Enough of me, Red. What about you? Don't I get to see some pictures of you?"

"No." The thread of warmth that had been winding its way through Ivy snapped, leaving her cold at the edges. She pulled away from Harley, whose hands had just covered hers. "I don't have any."

She stood and looked down, ready to gauge her reaction. All she saw on Harley's face was confusion.

"Oh," her words were just breath, the tone of them hopeful. "Like, you don't have 'em with ya?"

Unable to form words, for some reason, Pam only shook her head.

"Didn't you want any?" Harley stumbled in her haste to get to her feet, slipping on the photographs strewn beneath her. They bent, distorting the innocent young replications of her face. The sight was so heavy Pam nearly forgot to let go of Harley's shoulders as she helped her maintain balance. The light of the sunset coming in low and orange through the high windows reflected in Harley's glassy eyes, a look sad and knowing settled in there. "Weren't they worth saving?"

Words still failing her, Pam turned away, pushing her soil-dirtied fingers through her hair. The room began to spin; when she sat on the sofa she hadn't expected Harley to join her. Pam stared at their shadows, overlong and stretching from their feet to the far wall opposite them.

"When I was little," Ivy began slowly. "I used to say to myself, _There is no sun Gotham._ Some days, I still think it's true. Like now. We're literally bathing in sunlight right now, but it hardly feels real. We, all us Rogues, we all think we're the best villain or villainess to walk these filthy streets, but we're wrong. Gotham is its own best thief."

"What makes you say that?" Harley's words were slow, cautionary.

Pam was silent. How soon she forget that her friend had once been in psychiatry? Even if she had apparently used her womanly charms to get ahead, she was all the smarter in Pam's book for going at it that way.

"You're gonna be all right, Red." Harley said quietly, putting a hand over Pam's again.

"What are you talking about?"

With a frown, Harley reached forward and Pam was startled to feel the soft touch of her fingertips on her cheek. The touch was so warm and gentle Pam reflexively moved toward it. It was infinitesimal at best, but Pam was astonished and sickened to see that Harley's finger came back glistening.

"You're crying, and you don't even realize it." Harley chuckled lightly as she examined her hand. She rested against Pam's arm, as if seeing the tears acted as some form of silent consent. Pam, however, did not push her away. "I guess I should count myself lucky. Any other person woulda been killed just for seein' ya cry—and, well, touching your poison tear. So, I think that means I'm pretty good for ya, Red. Always have been. C'mon. You can tell me. Tears like this don't just happen for no reason."

Pam wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "Good for me, huh?"

"Duh. If it weren't for me, you and Selina would just be gloomy weirdos who liked to beat up costumed losers in their spare time. Now, at least you both have a friend."

"I don't think I've ever had a f-friend before," it was such a simple word to stumble over. "Before you."

Harley's whole head turned a bright shade of red. In response, she grabbed the blanket from the back of the sofa and flung it over them, situating herself further into Pam's side as if she could fuse with the older woman.

"You're _damn _right we're friends, missy," said the clown firmly. "Through and through. Thick and thin. You can tell me anything, and I'll have ya back."

Pam chuckled quietly, shaking her head. "I don't have any photographs, because I've only been "Pamela Isley" since I was eight."

"Who were ya before?"

"My name was Ivy. Ivy Pepper."

She could feel old dredges of bitterness and embarrassment burning in her belly, as she saw Harley form the last name "Pepper" over and over silently. Searching. Searching a space of herself that Pam didn't like to think on.

"Pepper," Harley spoke up. Horror was developing in her eyes, growing as she continued to speak. "The guy they thought killed Bruce Wayne's parents, like, twenty years ago? They gave us a rundown on him when they were training us in law school on local criminals. They said—they said he had a long history of crime under his belt. Like—like theft, and domestic—"

"Abuse," Pam whispered bitterly. "Yeah, I guess that's what it was. Negligent. That's a better word, I guess. He never…he never laid a finger on me, I mean. Ever. Not even a hug, a pat on the back. But I was all right. I didn't need it. Never have."

And yet, as she said it, the weight and warmth of Harley's presence, so real and stably _there_, was more than mildly welcome. Her plants, though she loved them so, could give her affection, but never warmth, never softness. Both were things she thought she would never find use for again. Perhaps it was this comfort, the calm and quiet, Harley's breath on her shoulder, which made her go on, to dig up at the roots of herself despite the inherit pain.

"My mother was no better. She was—" Pam watched as their silhouettes were fading with the last light of day "—sick. Fragile, I suppose. I asked my father what was wrong with her, why she was shaky all the time, eyes full of fear and sadness; he said she was too fragile for this world. I believe him to this day, especially now that I understand that he was the one making her that way. She was always so good at hiding the bruises, the fighting. So good at it that when he died, she must have snapped. It all piled up, and the only way out she saw was through making a few painful marks of her own."

She was ready for Harley to stop her. Most people, if she ever brought up even a scrap of her story, told her to quiet. It wasn't worth dwelling on. It hurt her too much. Sad things shouldn't be remembered. She could recall everyone's excuses as to why they shouldn't listen to her.

But Harley never said a word.

"They tried to put me into a nice home. It didn't work, the first time at least. They were just like my parents, but in a different shell. Bitter candy in a prettier wrapper. I ran away, lived on the streets awhile. And I was good at it—y'know, for a kid. I still got caught. I went through five families before I arrived at the Isleys' doorstep. They had a beautiful garden. The other families, they didn't understand my need for the earth and all it could yield. I…I wanted to make something that I could protect, something that I could hold in my hands and say that it was _mine_, something…to prove that I was worth something.

"When they decided to adopt me, they asked if I wanted their last name. But I couldn't stop there. I loved my parents, despite their faults, despite all they did and didn't do for me. But I needed to leave them, leave that past behind." Pam drew in a breath, a curious weightlessness overtaking her, making her head spin. "They gave me my adopted father's mother's name, and…I moved on. When I became a criminal myself, followed my old man's footsteps and surpassed them with flourish, I thought it was only fitting. To embrace that part of me as I tread into darkness. When I'm Poison Ivy, the ghost of Ivy Pepper trembles and whispers _avenge me, _and I do."

To her shock, Pam felt something wet on her shoulder. Harley had been silently crying against her.

"It ain't fair," she muttered, her body shaking. "It ain't fair that you've had to be so brave, Pam. No little kid—no little kid shoulda had to—to be so strong when they're so _little_."

"I didn't feel that strong."

Harley looked up at her, her eyes puffy and nose running. With wet, trembling lips, she kissed Pam's face one, two, three times in quick succession, then burrowed her head deep into her neck with force.

"I'm so proud of you!" The sound was muffled in Pam's hair.

Pam smiled lopsidedly and let out a quiet laugh through her nose. It was comforting, somehow, and exactly like Harley, that she would cry for Pam so she wouldn't have to. This wouldn't do; Harley should always be smiling. There was no light in Gotham without it.

"I half-lied to you," Pam confessed, her stomach twisting at the idea of revealing this to her. "I do have one picture. Would you like to see it?"

Harley nodded her head so vigorously that she bonked Ivy's chin with the top of her skull.

Together, their hands linked, they went upstairs to Pam's room. Harley sat on the bed and Ivy reached under. A blush crept into her cheeks as she unearthed the box. Inside was a mass of dried flower petals, cushioning a single photograph. She handed it over to Harley and sat on the floor beside the younger woman's legs.

"This is you, with your mom and dad?" Harley asked, holding the photograph as if it were something precious. The photograph depicted Pam as an infant, just over a year old. Her parents were on either side, smiling into the camera. It was the only photograph she could find of all of them smiling when she left their home after her mother's death. "You were a beautiful baby."

Pam smiled at the floor, her head resting against Harley's knee. Her eyes widened when Harley's hand began to stroke her hair softly, but the sensation was so soothing that she couldn't keep her eyes open.

"ISLEY, DID YOU FUCKING MUDDY UP MY WALLS AGAIN?"

Pam and Harley laughed quietly as Selina loudly swore from the floor below. Though the sun was now down, for the first time in a long time, Pam could almost feel its presence.


End file.
